Hayat

Hayat announces itself as an unapologetically dense oud composition, but it's the lavender-saffron pairing in the opening that stops you mid-spray. This isn't your grandmother's lavender; the Bulgarian variety meets saffron's leathery, medicinal tang and bitter orange's pithy astringency to create something both familiar and utterly alien—like stumbling upon a spice merchant's stall tucked inside a monastery. The heart reveals Kemi's architectural intent: cinnamon and cardamom don't simply sweeten the amber, they turn it molten and almost too hot to touch, whilst the spices themselves take on a resinous, honeyed quality that speaks to serious blending skill rather than simple layering.

But it's in the base where Hayat earns its 'animalic' billing. The oud here isn't the sanitised, woody whisper you find in department store orientals—it's barnyard-adjacent, with cypriol's rooty, vetiver-like intensity amplifying the feral aspects whilst cedar and patchouli attempt to civilise the whole affair. They don't entirely succeed, and that's precisely the point. This is a fragrance for those who've grown bored of polite oud compositions, who want their woody-spicy fragrances to have teeth and a bit of swagger. You'll wear this when you want to occupy space rather than simply perfume it, when subtlety feels like cowardice. It's the olfactory equivalent of wearing a vintage kaftan to a minimalist gallery opening—beautifully out of step, magnificently unbothered.